


In Check

by silverlining99



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-17
Updated: 2009-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Control issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Check

**Author's Note:**

> For an st_xi_kink meme prompt re sickbay bed restraints: On an unbidden whim, Chapel realises those straps could be put to uses other than restaining patients and the idea just haunts her until she can hardly stand it.

re·strain  
tr.v. re·strained, re·strain·ing, re·strains  
1\. a. To hold back or keep in check; control: couldn't restrain the tears.  
b. To hold (a person) back; prevent: restrained them from going.  
2\. To deprive of freedom or liberty.  
3\. To limit or restrict.

You're a good girl, always have been, and it's served you well. It's taken you at lightning speed through school, through Starfleet Medical's nursing program; it's landed you the best nurse position on the best ship in the fleet. When you were five you simply didn't want to get in trouble; now that you're twenty-two you want so much more, and you're determined enough to get it that you behave yourself.

You don't break rules.

But you do dream.

Like of the captain, once, briefly, just for example. You heard the stories: he was already a fast-rising legend when you started your two year program at the Academy. And your roommate, she came home one night - god, just a few short months ago - flush and rumpled and sweaty, staggering on wobbly legs, and all she would say was "Jim Kirk...my _god_."

You rolled your eyes and went back to studying. You had no time to daydream, much less to chase reality, and you saw no point in even wanting something like that. The only place Jim Kirk's dick could take you was to the far side of an amazing orgasm and frankly, you could take yourself to the same place just fine, thank you all the same.

You had better places to go, though.

But then he saves your life. Yours and everyone else's, on the ship and on Earth, and at the end of it all he's nothing but a fragile man slumped on an examination table, battered and bloody and bruised. He submits silently to your ministrations as he stares at the door to the operating theater. Doctor McCoy is in there, and Captain Pike, and there's been no news for a very long time.

He asks anyway. "Will Pike be all right?"

"I'm sure he will," you tell him gently. You touch a hypospray against his arm; you've gotten very good at that, at choosing the spot, and he barely feels it.

He nods slowly and finally looks at you. In his eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot around shining blue, you can find no good reason to believe that your very life so recently hung by a thread that he kept from snapping. He's not a hero in the myth he spent years creating for himself; he's a man, with flaws and needs and charm.

Still, you finally understand why your roommate cried when he didn't go out with her again.

You just don't understand anything else, most especially why you suddenly want to kiss his split lip instead of mending it.

He smiles tiredly. "You're Chapel, right?" You nod; you don't trust your own voice. "Bones told me about you. Said you were great after the..." He trails off and you sympathize with the desire not to say the word, any of the options. The battle, the massacre, the genocide, the _slaughter_ \- there is no palatable way to phrase it. "Said he doesn't know what he would have done without you." You flush at that and don't know why, if it's his voice or his words. "I'm Jim, by the way."

"You're Captain Kirk," you correct him carefully. Something familiar and reassuring snaps back into place in your mind, and you remember the masks that each of you must wear and are able, again, to treat him accordingly. "All right, I'm done. You can leave, but I'm sure Doctor McCoy will want to see you when he's out of surgery."

"Yeah, I'll come back. On one condition - if I need any shots, you have to give them to me." His eyes twinkle and you can tell the mild stimulant you gave him is working. Nobody can afford to let him stop and rest, not just yet. "I think he missed the day they taught you guys to use those things correctly."

You just smile and turn away. You won't be the one to tell him that McCoy can make you not even feel it - if he chooses to do so.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two days later the ship is quiet, serene. The Enterprise rendezvoused with three 'fleet transport vessels to transfer non-essential personnel for a faster journey back to Earth, and you've stayed behind. It will be two more weeks of limping along at quarter-impulse with minimal crew, but even minimal crew deserves medical staff on hand.

They don't need it at the moment, though, and you're bored. They've taken all your patients and if you double-check the supply inventory one more time, you think you may go insane.

You've never, ever done well with boredom. Another thing that's always kept you going, and gotten you where you are. You've spent too many hours over the last couple of days entertaining thoughts that would do better to be put away.

Good girls, you tell yourself sternly, good _nurses_ do not spend time thinking about non-medical uses for restraints.

You think you maybe should have taken the time to have a little more fun during school.

Doctor McCoy comes in while you're compiling records for transmission to Starfleet. He looks frazzled. "The man is impossible," he mutters.

You hide a smile. You've fast become used to his rants about the captain, and to the devotion that underlies his complaints, every time. "What is it this time?"

"Refuses to come in and let me check those ribs. What are you doing?"

You take his rough tone in stride. It's not about you and you wouldn't care if it was; the doctor's irascible demeanor has grown on you to the point of distraction, to the point that you prefer him gruff and irritable to anything else. "Finalizing the injury reports. I ran out of other things to do."

"Eh, leave it. They were fine when you looked at them yesterday, and they'll be fine when Central Records looks at them." You obey, shutting down your console and standing attentively, waiting for instructions. He just paces. "Last damn injured man on the ship and he won't let me do my job. What the hell kind of sense am I supposed to make of that?"

You give up with a sigh. There's no longer any point to standing on protocol. You hop up onto the end of an exam table and cross your legs demurely, examine your fingernails. "None," you tell him. "He thrives on being difficult. Everyone knows that."

McCoy stops pacing and glances at you. "Everyone, huh?"

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Everyone. Relax, Doctor, he's just being _normal_. That's a good thing, all things considered."

He sighs, defeated. "Never thought I'd live to see the day. Ignore me, Chapel, I'm going stir-crazy."

You gaze at him, note the tension in his shoulders and smudges under his eyes. "Is that it?" you ask. You're stepping out of place, a little, but you find that you don't care. It's an unfamiliar feeling, one that straightens your spine and makes your pulse quicken. You like it. "Are you sure the captain is the only casualty left on the ship?"

"Pardon?"

"I went to the seminar you organized," you tell him evenly. "Have you even admitted to yourself that you almost died out here yet?"

McCoy stares hard at you, frowns. "You're out of line, Chapel."

You shrug delicately at him. "I disagree. Who watches the watchers, Doctor? It's well within the scope of my duties to assess whether a referral for psychological evaluation should be placed in your file."

He's on you in three swift steps, one large hand wrapping around the bones of your wrist and squeezing slightly. "You wouldn't dare."

"No," you admit. His skin is warm against yours, his fingers slim and strong. "But someone else might. You need to decompress before we reach Earth and you know it."

McCoy holds your gaze in a way he never has before, calm and thoughtful like always but with an edge of something else, something you've only allowed to flicker across the back of thoughts you try not to have at all. You tug your arm experimentally and he doesn't let go. He grabs your other wrist and holds you still. "How would you suggest I do that?" he asks softly. "In your professional opinion."

You uncross your legs, let your knee brush against his groin. "I'll defer to your expertise on this matter, Doctor," you manage to get out.

He releases one wrist to drop his hand to your bare thigh. His fingers curl against the soft inner flesh, exert the slightest pressure to urge your legs apart. "It's a matter of control, did you know that?" he asks. He steps forward between your knees, still staring at you. "So many things that could happen out here, our lives in other people's hands - christ, in Jim _Kirk's_ hands."

"So it's control you need?" you whisper. You curl one foot behind the back of his knee to try to draw him closer.

"Be quiet," he says. His eyes drop to your mouth and you lick your lips, bite the lower one. "Computer...secure doors, authorization McCoy-delta-five-two-three." Your breath hitches. His hand slides under your uniform skirt. "Do you know why I became a doctor?"

You whimper, shake your head. "N-no."

"To make things happen. To make disease and injuries follow _my_ terms." You shiver and twist your wrist in his grasp as his hand brushes your underwear, and his fingers tighten painfully. "Keep still, damn it," he orders. He fumbles at the hem of your underwear and tugs. You awkwardly press your free hand to the table and try to lift your hips to help him. He rumbles approvingly and eases the material down your legs. "I think you're right, Chapel. I think I know what I need to 'decompress'." You stare at him silently, at the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. "If I fucked you you right here," he goes on. "If I just...held you down and had my way with you, maybe that would help. Do you agree?"

You swallow hard. "Yes," you whisper shakily. His frown eases for just a moment, just a flash of a message that you're okay, you're safe, he won't hurt you. You dare to try to free your wrist again and reach your other hand to touch his side. He growls, jerks you forward. "I thought I told you to keep still. Can't you do anything right?"

You can't, not a chance, not the way you're trembling and running on instinct. And yes, _yes_ , maybe too you're thinking of the restraints so close within reach, you're flashing back to ill-formed notions you had this morning when there was nothing to do but have bad ideas.

He sighs and shakes his head. "All right, then." In a flash he's shoved you onto your back, his body following smoothly and pushing you back along the exam table, and when you feel one soft strap wind around your wrist you gasp.

You pray you don't wake up.

"It's your own damn fault, Chapel," he snaps. "Can't even follow simple instructions - are you stupid, girl? Or are you just aching for it so bad you don't _care_ what you've been told to do?" He straps down your other arm and only then, finally, at last thank _God_ , does he touch his mouth to yours. You twist your legs around his and kiss him back eagerly, straining up for it, your hands clenching and unclenchingly uselessly. He draws out the end of it, sucking your lower lip between his and dragging his teeth along the slick, tender skin inside your mouth. He moves along your jaw, across your neck. "All you have to say is no," he murmurs in your ear. His hands, warm and rough, skid along your thighs. "I'll stop, I swear."

You shake your head frantically, bump your cheeks together. You yank helplessly at the restraints; you are never going to be able to use them with patients again without going weak in the knees. "Please," you choke out. "I want you, please, please, just -"

He grabs your jaw in one hand, forces you to look at him. He's gone hard and angry again in the wake of your reassurance. "This isn't about what you want, is it?" He surges up over you and begins unfastening his pants, frees his cock. You stare at it and lick your lips, lift your hips as if you could just _summon_ it into you. He tests you with probing fingers and smirks at how wet you are, how you clench around his hand. "Jesus," he says fervently, and he lowers his weight and guides himself to you and fills you, one surge of his hips bringing your bodies flush together. "God, _Christine_."

"Doctor," you say brokenly in return. You have nothing else to fall back on; he's Bones to the captain and Doctor McCoy to everyone else, to you. He is not your friend and you doubt, after this, that he ever will be.

Perhaps it's for the best. The sound he makes when you stick to formalities is - it fills your ears and sends a shiver down your spine. You blink up at him. "Doctor," you say again. You school your voice into a breathy plea and he groans, pumps feverishly into you. "God, Doctor _McCoy_ , _yes_."

He presses his cheek to yours, grips your waist, fucks hard. "Shut up," he gasps. "Shut up, shut _up_ , shut your filthy fucking _mouth_ , Christine, I told you."

You breathe raggedly, panting. Each snap of his hips grinds him against your clit and it's building, a knot of tension low in your belly that _hurts_ , makes you aches for release, and you just can't get there and you can't touch yourself and he palms your breast through your uniform, pinches, and his mouth covers yours and muffles the cries you can't hold back, the high-pitched pleas he doesn't want to hear and it's _good_ , him fucking you. It's the most shocking thing you've ever done, it's against every rule you've ever set for yourself, it's guaranteed to bring trouble down on your head as soon as you're back in the real world if not sooner.

You don't _care_. You tip your head back and arch your back and spin apart, screaming it out, elbows digging hard into the table and hands straining to break free. McCoy pushes his weight up onto his arms and fucks you like he can't go deep enough, hard enough. Your flesh slaps together wetly and he grunts with each thrust and you close your eyes just as he slams deep and comes inside you, his cock pulsing as your muscles shudder around it.

He falls to his forearms and breathes heavily into the curve of your neck. His lips move and you strain to hear before you realize he's not saying anything, just kissing, suckling. He fumbles to release first one restraint, then the other, but you don't move your freed hands to him.

You wait.

When he draws out and climbs off of you at last, he touches a hand to your stomach. "Just wait," he murmurs. He leaves and comes back to you with a wet cloth, cleans you gingerly before he helps you sit up. He tucks some hair behind your ear and grazes his knuckles across your cheek. "I'm." He stops; you watch him silently. "I'm going to go get some rest. In - in my quarters. You can handle things here?"

You nod. "Call me if anything comes up," he adds. "And go ahead and send those reports off."

"Yes, Doctor," you say.


End file.
